


Ring in the New

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Series: Happy Endings [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3085685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma's quiet night in for New Year's Eve ends up involving some fireworks after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ring in the New

Emma wipes grease off her hands with a paper towel, then digs her phone out of the nest of blankets she's cocooned within and checks to see why it buzzed at her.

_Having a marvelous night of debauchery, Swan?_

She snorts, feeling her mouth curve up in a smile. He's got the most true-to-life text voice of anyone she knows.

_you bet. me, a bag of popcorn shrimp, a sixer of pbr, and netflix._

She doesn't even have time to drop the phone again before it's ringing (not that she was planning to; she had a feeling he'd be calling).

"Sounds like quite the gathering," he says, by way of greeting. "What are you wearing?"

It's too bad he can't see her eyeroll over the phone, because it feels like one of her better ones. "You're going to make me regret giving you my number, aren't you." 

"Not at all," he says, with a laugh that tells her the eyeroll came through just fine in her voice. Good. "I merely wish to fill in the picture you've sketched out for me."

She grabs the remote with her free hand and hits pause; she'd kind of been zoning out on her _Deadliest Catch_ marathon, anyway, and though he doesn't need to know this, he's a lot more interesting. Tugging back the top layer of her cocoon to double-check (she's taken full advantage of closing early for New Year's Eve and gone straight into antisocial hibernation mode), she says, "Flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt that's been washed about a million times."

"Which I'm certain look most fetching on you," he says without a pause.

She scoffs, loudly. "Yeah, I'm runway-bound, any day now." 

"I don't doubt it," he says, warmly, and she can just about see the smile that goes with that tone. Somehow, even through the phone, he can still make her blush.

"How 'bout you?" she asks, trying to change the subject. There's really no background noise on his end, so she speculates, "On your way to a party, or hopping from one to the next?"

"Actually, neither." 

"I find that hard to believe," she says, unwinding herself a little--the blankets have gotten tangled around her waist. "You're telling me no one you know wants to corner you into a midnight kiss."

He chuckles at that. "I've received no invites from anyone I'd wish to do so," he says.

She's about to call him on that not-exactly-a-denial--she knew it, she just knew he's the type to get invited to a million parties--when she realizes that maybe that means there _is_ someone he wants to kiss at midnight, and her stomach does a funny little swoop.

She doesn't even know if he means her or not, isn't even sure if that's jealousy or anticipation, and she's definitely not prepared to deal with either. "So, what, you're just sitting around your apartment?" she says, a little more curtly than she intended.

He laughs, then. "Says the lady who's doing the same, though my weapon of choice is Merlot," he says, and she's momentarily stumped for an answer to that, because she is utterly busted.

Instead, she leans forward to grab her beer, and gasps when her back informs her that 1) she's been sitting in the same position too long, and 2) it's really not happy about that.

"Are you all right?" Killian asks, and she nods, before realizing how pointless that is over the phone.

"Yeah," she says, strain in her voice as she twists at the waist. "Just need to stretch out a cramp, one sec." She drops the phone to twine both hands together and extend them over her head, giving a relieved groan when the cramp lets go. "Sorry about that," she mutters into the phone, using her free hand to shove herself free of the remains of her blanket nest.

He's quiet just long enough that she starts to wonder whether the connection dropped. "Killian?"

She hears him breathe out a laugh. "You shouldn't make noises like that, darling," he murmurs, in a dark, intimate voice that sends a shivering heat through her stomach. "They have quite the effect on me."

"Oh, yeah?" she says. Her own voice has dropped, and her hand curls around her phone, as if she could get closer to him that way. "What kind of effect?"

"You know exactly what kind," he says, and she has to close her eyes for a second, because he sounds like wandering hands and skin on skin and heady kisses that seem to last for days.

She squirms around on her sofa, shoving the blankets into a makeshift pillow and shifting down onto her back. "Maybe I want you to tell me about it," she says, her hand coming to rest on her stomach, over her threadbare t-shirt.

"Do you, now," he says, an extra note of interest coloring his voice. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

She smiles to herself, letting her eyes drift closed again, the better to focus on his voice. "Sounds like you're the one who's having trouble _handling_ it."

"No trouble at all, Swan," he says, and she's picturing the way his eyes darken when he sounds like that. There's a pause, and then, softly, "I'd simply prefer it were you."

She swallows around a sudden tightness in her throat. "Talk to me, Killian," she says, a little hoarsely. "You promised me that if I gave you my number, I'd be getting a dirty phone call."

"That I did," he says, low and tantalizing. She hears movement in the background. "Have you made yourself comfortable, love?"

"Could be better," she says, spreading her fingers flat, kneading her own skin through her shirt. "Getting a little tense right now." There's more rustling from his end, and she can't quite picture what he's doing. "What about you?"

"Moved to the bed," he says. "You've ruined the couch for me, you know. I sit there, and all I can think about is the way you taste, how you felt under my hands."

"Yeah?" Now she's thinking about it, too, his mouth on her, and she drags her nails across her cloth-covered nipple, letting him hear her bitten-off moan.

"Ye gods, woman," he mutters, and she can't help her grin.

"Killian, please tell me you're touching yourself, too," she whispers, her words running together when she teases her other nipple. "I want you with me in this."

His breathless laughter is filled with disbelief. "I'm impressed that you believe I have that kind of restraint, but I'm only human, love," he says, and now she can hear the arousal in his voice. "Thinking about you using your hands on yourself…" She hears him breathing, heavy and labored. "It's intoxicating."

"You're making me want to ruin that bed for you, too," she says, and slips her hand down her pants, too impatient to wait any longer. Her breath hitches as she circles her clit with her fingers. "You'd like that, right, Killian? Bending me over that mattress, messing up those nice sheets of yours?" She works two fingers into herself, choking out an " _oh_ " at the feeling--good, but not as good as it could be. "Fucking me until I can't walk?" she adds, her voice going tighter as she curls her fingers and jams her palm against her clit.

"Bloody hell," he rasps, sounding almost like he's in pain. "You've no idea how much."

"So _tell_ me," she says, grinding against her own hand at the sound of his voice.

"Oh, but I'd rather take my time with you, Emma," he says. His accent's going a little blurry around the edges, his diction losing its edge, and, shit, she didn't realize his voice could get even hotter. "I'd worship every part of you, find every place that makes you writhe and moan and curse my name."

Which she's damn close to doing right now--she's burning up, the blankets sticking to her sweaty skin, but she can't care about any of that, too far gone and too close to stop. "You think I'd let you have all the fun?" she breathes, and hardly recognizes her own voice.

"That's just where the fun _begins_ , love," he says, voice full of heady want, and it sends her over the edge.

" _Fuck_ , Killian," she moans, coming hard around her own fingers, gripping her phone tightly enough that she might be cracking the case. She pants, jagged and desperate, but doesn't miss the groan he gives from the other end of the line. 

He might whisper her name, too, but she can't be sure.

She finally pulls her cramping hand from her pants (shuddering as she does so, still a little sensitive) and grabs blindly for the paper towel roll she knocked to the floor. She claws a couple free and wipes off her hand, then uses the back of her forearm to brush her hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Still alive over there?" she asks, and his answering chuckle sounds sated and happy.

"I think so," he murmurs. "I might need a second opinion."

She's a complete mess, in desperate need of a shower, and her fridge is stocked only with trashy microwave finger foods and booze. And yet, she's _this_ close to telling him to come over so she can check, telling him she'll be his midnight kiss (followed immediately by a midnight climbing-him-like-a-tree). 

She can't, though; that just seems so--couple-y. Dangerous. This is good, what they have is good, and it's enough. It has to be.

So she says, "You sound pretty alive to me," and if she winces at how lame that sounds, well, it's not like he can see her.

"Fair enough," he says lightly. She hears him shift around--stretching out, maybe; that might have been a faint grunt. "What say you, Swan? Do you regret it?" 

She blinks. "You mean…" He can't, though, right? She can't be the only one who thought that was _intense_.

"Giving me your number," he says innocently. The bastard. She can just _see_ the eyebrow going up in her mind.

"Not enough to change it. Yet," she says mildly, because two can play at that game. "I mean, if I did that, I'd have to give my information to the Chinese place all over again. And the pizza place. And… the Indian place." She covers her eyes with her forearm, because, Jesus, Emma, stop babbling. "I don't--do a lot of cooking."

"I do, actually," he says, surprising her. "Though not as often as I'd like--it's much less enjoyable cooking for one." 

"Any good at it?"

"No one I've poisoned has ever complained."

She breathes a laugh at that. It's almost surreal to be having a conversation like this after phone sex, but he's always been easy to talk to (and, probably more importantly, not too put off that she's _not_ ).

"You can judge for yourself, sometime," he says, and Emma drops her arm, staring at the ceiling in mild panic. Is he asking her to… "If you're still interested in defiling my bed," he continues, in a tone that's just full of interesting suggestion, "it seems only fair to feed you first."

"I'll take it into consideration," she says, a little faint with relief. They're still on the same page; it's fine. 

There's a commotion outside, and she looks over at the TV clock. She'd totally lost track of the time.

"Happy New Year, Swan," he says quietly.

She smiles, though he can't see it. "So far, so good," she says, and tries not to think about missed kisses. "Happy New Year, Killian."


End file.
